Twisted Fates
by Writeaboutus
Summary: What happens when 8 very different people in 8 very different situations are suddenly very immersed in every aspect of each others lives? A SENSE8 AU. Clexa. Many other possible pairings. Will feature most of your faves.
1. Prologue

**"It really boils down to this: that all life is interrelated. We are all caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tired into a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one destiny, affects all indirectly." Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.**

* * *

Abandoned Cathedral, South Boston. USA.

Moonlight flickered through the once brilliantly bright stained glass windows. The dilapidated building shattered to pieces, once a place of faith and worship now a home to drug addicts and squatters alike.

In a matter of speaking, it still served refuge to lost souls.

Grime and dirt scattered the area along with empty beer cans and used syringes. Broken needles and rusted spoons. Old match boxes, lighters, belts. Dirtied clothes and condom wrappers. Every sort of filth you could imagine unwelcome to a Catholic church.

It was no place to want to be found in at night. This night however, it was eerily vacant, as if the long lost souls from all around knew to steer clear. Empty, save for the woman laying on a pile of garments, curled in on herself as if suffering the greatest pain.

Silent tears stream down her face, but she refused to cry out in pain. She was stronger than that. Her long hair sticking to her skin from both the tears and sweat.

She sat bolt upright from her place on a pile of putrid clothes, grasping at the cloth.

"It hurts," she gasped, gritting her teeth, eyes squeezed shut. "I need more medicine".

To an outsider it would appear as if this woman was talking to herself, perhaps talking to a drug induced hallucination.

"Not now my love," a man crouched down next to her, whispered the encouragement in her ear. "Be strong Anya". He, unlike the woman wore pristine clothes, shaggy hair and a finely trimmed beard. He did not belong there.

"Marcus," she groaned in pain, leaning back into his encouraging embrace. He held her tight, willing his strength to the woman, but that was not how the connection worked. "I don't know if I can do this".

"You're their only hope Anya, they will be hunted regardless. Give them the fighting chance they deserve". He uttered, brushing her matted hair off her sticky skin.

It would almost appear as if the woman was in the process of giving birth. Her seated position on the ground, legs spread as if this were the case, but she bore no pregnant belly.

She reached over to her side, her fingers searching for a source to relieve the pain, but found nothing. Her heroin stash completely gone.

Instead she reached for the gun and held it reverently in her hands, much like a catholic would grasp at the beads of a rosary.

"Be strong my love," Marcus glanced down at the gun with a hollow look of sorrow. He had lost so many before Anya and only wished he could somehow salvage the pieces left of their lives. He knew this was impossible.

With a sudden gasp, Anya opened her eyes wide. In that moment it felt fitting that she was in an abandoned place of worship because before her very eyes, a hallowed vision came before her.

"I see them," she breathed in a whispered gasp of reverence.

Before her very eyes a busy emergency room manifested. A blonde with her wavy locks pulled into a messy pony tail, rushed towards her, her piercing blue eyes flashing around the room. The chaos around her stilled as those blue eyes stopped on her, confused, as she froze in her spot. Her blue eyes trained on Anya.

A man, eyes dark and focused on the subject before him. Black charcoal smudged on his fingers and an intense gaze. He stood rigidly in front of an easel, only his dangerous gaze was not predatory, it was passionate as he drew his naked subject sprawled across a bed. The dark strokes of charcoal on the paper, once of a naked woman, now of Anya, eyes wide and a look of pure revelation on her features.

A short, but fiery girl bore a look contempt on her otherwise beautiful face. A snarl marked her lips as she wailed on a guy twice her size. Beaten and bloody, while not a scratch marred her face. The abandoned warehouse she was in was bare save for the few blood spatters, brown with age. The small woman's eyes shifted away from her bloodied victim, blood dripping from her knuckles when she caught sight of Anya. Her fist unclenched and her hardened gaze softened with confusion.

An ordinary man, dressed in sweats and a wife beater, lazily sprawled on a couch. An ornate bong in his hands, bubbling as he ripped from it. He held in an impressively long breath before releasing a long cloud of smoke into the air. His bleary eyes unfocused, until he saw through the cloud of smoke to see Anya in his living room

A desert outpost with a woman, clenching her M-16 securely in her hands. Her emerald eyes focused with the mission on mind. She was sure and precise with her movements. Her partner at her back, helping her clear the room of a home. He body crouched as she pointed the muzzle of her gun from corner of the room to corner, looking for any possible threats, stopping short at the pained woman on the ground, Anya stared back.

A handsome man, a large firehose strung over his burly shoulder. Running towards a burning building as many pedestrians stopped to watch the disaster, only one task on his mind and that was to reach his point and calm the blaze. He found his position and jus before he was about to bark his order to turn on the hose, Anya appeared before him.

Loud buzzing and mechanical clicking in some sort of metal work shop. A vehicle sat in the middle of the shop, a pair of legs stick out from under it with large black boots on the feet. A brace on the left leg dragged as the right leg scooted out from under it. A small woman sat up on the creeper, a fierce look of determination was replaced with one of pure and utter puzzlement. Clearly she thought she had been alone in her shop, but she rolled out from under the car to come face to face with Anya.

Somewhere in a loud, bass bumping club was a man drowning out his nerves with the bubbling poison of alcohol. Lights flashed in various colors and lasers pointed around the crowd. The alcohol had given the shaggy haired man confidence to rip off his shirt so he could cheer and dance along with everyone else. That was when Anya, who didn't exactly fit in with the rest of the crowd, appeared before his field of vision. He looked down at his drink in confusion, maybe he had had too much, or maybe someone slipped something in there. He stopped swaying to the music and openly gaped.

Back in the Cathedral Anya was pulled back into her reality. Her surroundings, no longer envisioning her 8 newly soul fated children. She turned to Marcus.

"Kane, take care of them," Anya told him urgently, taking a firm hold of his white collard shirt. He soothingly placed his hand on hers, giving it a squeeze.

Before Marcus could even respond with an assurance, Anya looked at him terrified.

"He's here, Marcus, Pike is here," She shooed Marcus away with her hands as if that would get him to leave.

A tall authoritative man, clearly used to being in control hovered over Anya menacingly.

"Is that Marcus?" he asked her softly in a cunning voice.

"Would you tell him I look very forward to meeting him?" Pike knelt down next to Anya, eyeing the gun while Anya looked to Marcus.

"I love you," she told him in a goodbye. Marcus smiled sadly at her, returning the sentiments easily.

"I love you too," he sighed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Because he really truly did, even after their souls were interconnected in such a tragic way. With one last parting look, Marcus Kane disappeared.

"Aw, how sweet," Pike tilted his head and exaggerated a pout at her. "A false promise you have made before". Pike referred to the gun. "We both know you're too scared to do it".

Anya did not look Pike in the eye. She refused to. She was stronger than that, and now that she couldn't use her drugs to keep herself hidden, she must protect those 8 new intertwined souls. And the only way to do that was…

She brought the gun to her mouth and closed her eyes.

"Don't do it!" Pikes eyes went wide, never did he think she would actually go through with it. Not until he could get to her at least.

Just as the door burst open and the real manifestation of Pike burst through the doors of the cathedral with a fully armed team, guns raised at Anya in tow, she took action.

"Stop her!" Pike ordered, but with the flash of a muzzle and a thundering gunshot, Anya's mind and her several different connections were silenced.

All around the world, the gunshot reached 8 different pairs of ears and not one of them would ever be able to forget the look on Anya's face when she took her own life to protect them.

From what is the question. Or rather, from who?

* * *

 **AN: I highly reccommend you know what Sens8 is before reading this, otherwise it might be a little confusing. I haven't written a lick for any of my other projects. I've had no inspiration, but I watched Sens8 and I watched the 100 and this is the brain child of that. It will involve all your faves (and perhaps some not).**

 **Any ideas as to who was which in Anya's visions? I know I didn't mention names yet, but I'm sure some were glaringly obvious, while others, not so much.**

 **And is this something anyone is even interested in reading? Let me know!**

 **-Alex**


	2. Close Encounters of the First Kind

**37.7833° N, 122.4167° W**

 **San Francisco, California. USA.**

Clarke had heard many horror stories from fellow first year trauma surgeon interns. Those concerning lack of sleep had always been her favorite because she had never experienced it herself.

It was simple, take a five hour energy, pour it into a red bull, and sip it between her morning coffee. Morning coffee's that were being ordered at 8 pm after an 18 hour shift, to keep her going through the last stretch of her shift. Sure, she understood the repercussions to drinking her deadly cocktail, but if you wanted surgeries,(and she did) you could not be asleep when they rolled in from the ambulance bay.

She'd heard about people collapsing from exhaustion in piles of vomit. Or falling asleep in the middle of their meal, or on the toilet, or even during sex. She'd heard about their hands shaking when doing sutures because of the caffeine consumption, hands that were supposed to be steady.

But she had yet to hear about hallucinations. It happened after a mere 10 hours, so it's not like she was even that tired. There she was, rushing to trauma room 3 to deal with a burn victim involved in a kitchen accident when, in the middle of the hallway, sat a woman in evident pain.

It appeared as if she could be homeless or a junkie. Possibly both. There was no mistaking the beauty of her face, and the way she just stared at Clarke in complete and utter awe. Clarke had stopped to stare for a moment, drawn to the woman in a way she could not even begin to explain.

She approached the woman slowly, looking around to see why no one bothered to help her or even look at her.

"Griffin, get moving!" a fellow intern shoved past her and the woman on the ground, but Clarke couldn't find it in her to move. Why was no one offering her help?

"Clarke?" Janice, or was it Judy? The intern who had just shoved past her noticed her frozen state. It must have been something in Clarke's face that caught her attention.

"We have to help her," Clarke stated urgently. Jessica, no, it was definitely Judy, looked down in confusion. Her brow was furrowed, looking down to where the woman should have been. But there was no one.

"Help who?" Judy asked Clarke slowly, she placed a worried hand on Clarke's back.

"She needs help," Clarke repeated a little more urgently. Couldn't they see? This woman needed immediate medical attention.

"Ok Clarke, we'll get her help," Judy conceded, leading Clarke away from the woman on the ground. Clarke knew that tone, it was one they used on patients they were afraid would hurt themselves. Or psyche patients who escaped their room.

"No!" Clarke pulled herself roughly out of Judy's grasp. The woman needed her help. She had to help her. Someone had to help her.

The woman on the ground stared into Clarke's vivid blue eyes, staring into her soul. And before Clarke could register what was happening, the woman pressed a gun to her open mouth and pulled the trigger.

She stepped forward as if she really had any time to stop the bullet, but the gun went off and the woman collapsed backwards onto the ground.

Clarke's hand reached up to her mouth stifling the scream that was ripped from her lungs and stumbled backwards right into Judy.

No one had a chance to ask Clarke what was going through her mind or why she was screaming for nothing, because she too, collapsed to the ground in an unconscious heap.

That was yesterday and now Clarke was dealing with the migraine that came in result of hitting her head on the hard linoleum floor. Also all of the staring that came with it too. Because apparently hallucinating in the middle of the emergency room was frowned upon by everyone.

"Seriously, I'm fine," Clarke tells her superior for the fourth time in the last 5 minutes.

"If you keep on repeating yourself I'm sending you for a CT," Doctor Jackson promises her. The last thing she wants is to spend more time in the hospital… as a patient.

Clarke stayed unconscious until the early hours of the mornings. They chalked it up to exhaustion that most first years have faced. Tests weren't run because of all of Clarke's protests.

"But I really am fine!" Clarke groans as he wheels her out of the front doors of the hospital in the wheelchair. It's hospital policy after all.

"You've said that so many times it does't even sound like a word anymore," Jackson sighs, especially when his intern crosses her arms in a frustrated huff. "It's not normal to be seeing a junkie in the middle of an ER. When She's. Not. There," Jackson stresses each word, hoping he's getting his point across.

Clarke knows it isn't normal. Of course it isn't normal, but something about it felt so real. The sound of the gunshot. The look in her eyes. Everything about that woman felt familiar despite her being a complete and total stranger. And a hallucination.

"Did you call someone to pick you up?" Jackson asks her, eyeing the parking lot for anyone approaching Clarke. He will not be letting her drive herself home.

"Yeah he should be-" Clarke doesn't get to finish her sentence, for a small eccentric sports car peels into the lot, honking three times to announce it's presence.

"That would be my ride," Clarke grumbles slightly embarrassed. She absolutely adores her best friend, but she doesn't need him showboating in front of her place of employment.

He doesn't even bother shutting off the car, he just jumps out of it and rushes towards Clarke who is smacking Jackson's fussing hands away from her, so she can pull herself free of the wheelchair.

"Babe, I am so sorry, I should have realized you weren't out getting laid when you didn't send me a text. Why did no one call me?" He worriedly places his hands on her face, looking her over to make sure there is no visible damage.

"Monty…" Clarke shifts uncomfortably. She did not need her boss knowing about her sex life. Monty removes his designer shades from his face and turns to look at the present company.

"Oh hey Doctor Jackson," Monty winks flintily at her boss. Clarke furrows her brow at her best friend then turns to her boss in surprise. Oh!

"We will see you tomorrow Doctor Griffin," Jackson smiles tightly at the pair before retreating to the hospital.

"I didn't know Jackson was…" Clarke lets the sentence trail off with a shrug. Monty takes her arm, leading her into the passenger side of his car.

"Sweetie, I think you forget we're in San Francisco," Monty smiles at her from the drivers seat. "Everyone in this city has at least had a taste of the other side".

"How could I forget when the love my life is almost too gay to function?" Clarke teases her best friend.

"Quoting Mean Girls doesn't suit you," Monty twists his face in disgust at the blonde. "Besides sometimes you outgay even me".

Clarke grunts in response, her migraine getting the best of her. She leans her head over against the cool glass of the window.

"So you saw a woman… Was it like a kinky hallucination or are you like holding back some sort of repressed memory?" Monty asks her, a hint of teasing. It's his way of coping. He shows his concern through thinly veiled jokes.

Clarke turns her tired gaze to Monty, throwing a hard glare his way.

"I was just tired," she finally relents. Shifting her gaze out the window yet again. She loves people watching. It's a favorite pass time of hers especially in such a colorful city as San Francisco.

She has seen some strange things in this city. I mean really, she's partaken in Pride San Francisco every year since she moved to the city, so how much stranger can it get?

But Clarke never expected to see the most beautiful woman she has ever laid her eyes on standing in the middle of an intersection.

She's dressed in cargo pants and a dirtied white tank top. A large scarf is draped over her head in a means to shield her from the sun. And though San Francisco tends to have an overcast this early in the morning, the sun is shining, but not nearly enough for this woman to be using a scarf as a form of head dress. Something about the way she carries herself, convinces Clarke that she doesn't wear it for religious purposes either.

The strange thing isn't this beautiful woman or her choice of wardrobe, but the fact that she carries a very dangerous looking gun right there in the middle of Franklin Street. That's still illegal right?

Normally Clarke wouldn't question it, but her migraine is making her question her judgement. Also, just as she passes the beautiful woman with the dangerous gun, she notes that maybe the most dangerous thing about this woman isn't the weapon held securely in her hands, but her emerald green eyes that take Clarke's breath away in the most cliché of ways.

"Woah…" Clarke breathes, fogging up the glass slightly as she passes the woman in the street.

"You okay there babe?" Monty asks looking over at his best friend with concern. She's practically drooling staring out the window.

"Did you see that? The woman? With the green eyes?" Clarke cranes her neck to look for her, but she is no longer in the intersection. She feels no need to mention the gun in her hands, because if he had seen her, Monty would have taken note of it.

"You could see a girls eyes from a moving car?" Monty asks her skeptically. She doesn't respond to him, for she spots her again, this time a block up ahead.

This woman looks confused now. By her surroundings. It's almost as if the blonde has called out to the beautiful stranger with a jawline more structured than Clarke's life. She turns her green eyes in her direction. The sea of green meeting Clarke's sky blue eyes.

"Clarke, you're starting to worry me," Monty eyes Clarke warily as he waits at the stop light. "Am I going to have to call your mom?"

Clarke blinks away the vision of the stranger in front of her, momentarily distracted by the looming threat of a phone call to her mother.

"No!" Clarke shouts, startling her best friend. "No," she reiterates a little more calmly. "You're right, you've been right. I just need some sleep".

"I'm right?" Monty asks incredulously. "Okay you really aren't feeling well. You'd never willingly say that. As soon as we get home you're getting your butt straight to bed".

Clarke hums in response, once again looking out the window, searching for the dangerous woman with startling green eyes.

* * *

 **32.1167° N, 20.0667° E**

 **Benghazi, Libya**

America would like everyone to believe that they are the good guys. And with the uniform she wears and the dog tags around her neck, she is supposed to believe that. She wants to believe it.

Alexandria Woods Sgt. 3SFG.

The acronym-ed way of saying Sergeant Woods is a member of the 3rd Special Forces group. She joined the military right out of high school. Both of her parents had passed away at a young age, so she had no way to afford college. The military was her way in.

She fell in love with the feeling of a family and never once looked back. Alexandria was one of the first females allowed to don the green beret. She wore it with pride and followed her commands blindly.

Hollywood and the media paints a certain picture about war zones Lexa has been to. Though of course she can never admit that. Her job is the literal manifestation of "If I told you, I'd have to kill you". Lexa and her crew were in and out of countries before anyone could even come up with the idea of the United States being there. Hence being in Benghazi, a supposed failed state, yet there they were, following orders. Doing her job all completely under cover.

It wasn't until an incident in Afghanistan did Alexandria, or Lexa, as she preferred to be called, did she start questioning what or who she was really fighting for. Before it was for her country. Then it was for her crew. Now that her tour was coming to a close, she questioned wether she would be returning.

Especially after last night.

She had followed protocol. Clearing rooms was something that came as second nature to her. Especially with her best friend Nathan Miller, they had been in the same battalion for 4 years now. They new absolutely everything about each other.

So there she was, clearing the room. No two rooms are alike so you can only go in with a basic idea of what might happen. They had been there looking for a terrorist going by the name Marcus Kane. The objective was simple enough. Miller checked to see if the door was locked. It's the first rule you learn when clearing a room, you don't want to be the idiot who unnecessarily kicked open a door, then Lexa entered, lifting her M16, finger on the trigger.

She took the left side, while Miller followed taking the right. It should have taken 8 seconds to clear the small living room. But when she rounded the first corner of the room to take the second, there she was. The woman on the ground.

Never in the entirety of her career, has Lexa frozen in place. Her guys depend on her. Lives depend on her. It was just something about this woman that was familiar. Like she had known her all her life, yet this was the first time ever seeing her.

"Clear!" Miller called out from the corner across from her. He lowered his gun, making sure the muzzle was pointed a meter away from his fellow soldier's gun. His eyes lifted to his friend, looking for any reason as to why she may not have called her area clear.

But she was just staring at empty ground.

"WOODS!" Miller called out to his friend, but Lexa remained frozen until the moment the woman lifted a gun to her own mouth.

"Drop the weapon!" Lexa ordered, her weapon trained on the threat. Gun meant threat in Benghazi, simple as that. And even though Lexa knew the woman was about to take her own life, she held her finger to her own trigger.

"Woods what the fuck are you doing?" Miller called out to his friend. He had no qualms of smacking some sense into her. Sure it was hot outside, but never once has Lexa Woods let the heat effect her efficiency at her job.

That had been 12 hours ago. And though Miller was covering for her ass, he needed to know what the hell happened. Lexa simply doesn't want to deal with anything because since that moment she has had a shooting pain in her head. That was a symptom of heat exhaustion…maybe she did have some sort of stroke.

"Seriously Woods, what the fuck happened?" Miller asks as they make their way through the darkened street in their civilian attire. Civilian attire was all they wore these days, they couldn't very well wear their Military uniforms in a country the US had claimed to pull their troops out from.

"I dunno Miller," Lexa responds in a low voice. They spoke in low voices so as not to call attention to themselves. English wasn't exactly the native tongue here.

"What do you mean you don't know? I got Diaz off your ass and you can't give me a solid explanation?" He asks her roughly. Two men across the street eye the couple warily. Both soldiers reach for their hidden weapons without thinking. A natural response.

Miller had his tucked away in the back of his pants. Lexa at the front, being obscured by her flowy shirt.

"Since when is their a distinction between you and I? How many times have I covered your ass?" Lexa asks him irritably. She didn't want to talk about it anymore. It was embarrassing. Miller scratches his head and sighs, of course Lexa has always had his back. Saved his life a couple of times too.

"Damn Woods why do you have to be such a pain in my ass?" He curses, then laughs when he nudges her slightly with his shoulder.

"I'm just worried is all," he finally explains. Lexa's eyes flicker towards her best friend and nods once. "It's not exactly normal to see a woman with gun who isn't actually there".

A small Toyota with a very large gun strapped to the bed of it speeds down the street towards them. The pair look forward, ignoring it just as any other passerby would.

They both squint against the headlights beaming in their eyes. But suddenly Lexa isn't seeing the Toyota. She is standing in the middle of a bustling street. And a sports car zooms past her, but its not the car that has caught her attention. No, it's a woman sitting in the passenger seat.

It's almost as if it moves in slow motion. How else would she note those brilliantly blue eyes, or the freckles that dot her face? Why else would anything but that woman cease to exist in that moment?

"Woods!" Lexa hears the voice of her partner, but he's not with her in the middle of the street "Yo Lex!" and just like that, the moment is ripped away from her when Miller tugs at her elbow.

"What is up with you?" Miller demands to know. Lexa rubs her hands at her temple, because she could have sworn she was just in a city and now she is back in the sandbox.

"I think I'm loosing my mind Nate," Lexa admits in a defeated tone. Miller smiles, like maybe Lexa is joking, but the serious look on her face tells him otherwise.

The Toyota finally passes them without incident, though the men do look at the pair as they pass by. Their tanned skin and attire keeps them pretty camouflaged in the area, it's not much to say about some of their white friends.

Lexa blinks and just like that, she is back in the city. Only this time not in the middle of the street. The same sports car zooms past her again, and the same thing as before happens, everything around her slows. And the blonde woman in maroon scrubs and bright blue eyes stares right back at her, this time with the hint of a smile on her face.

Lexa has never been one to believe love at first sight. Especially not for hallucinations, but after setting sight on this stranger, she might consider it. I mean was it really that absurd? The answer was yes, considering this woman was a figment of her imagination.

"Dude," Miller removes her scarf, hooded over her head, forcing Lexa back into her reality. "Talk to me".

"I'm seeing things," she tells him seriously. Miller's brow furrows. They are almost to their base, he can hold off this conversation until they get a little privacy.

The two are posing as a married couple. Which, when they both got the assignment they found pretty hilarious, considering their friendship started with the words "Don't ask, Don't tell". It was a recurring joke whenever either of them had sex and did the walk of shame (they were roommates back in the states).

Their base was small and restricted to 4 members for this small mission. It had been a long 7 months trapped in such a confined space with 3 disgusting, pig headed, did she mention disgusting? Men. Luckily one of them had been her best friend.

Since the whole don't ask don't tell has been repealed, people are allowed to be open about their sexuality, it doesn't mean they are accepting of it. A lot of men and women in the military grew up in the midwest with certain morals. Sure there were a lot of guys and girls alike that were accepting or simply didn't care, but it was naive to think people weren't still targeted because of their sexuality.

Lexa and Miller had vowed to have each other's back. Which is why they were sharing quarters in their tight area. Not that Diaz, their staff sergeant, and Johnson were bad guys. They were good guys, albeit a little tool-ish.

They pass Diaz and Johnson with a nod before making their way through the small living room area.

"Talk to me kid, what are you seeing?" Miller is not what people consider the normal kind of soldier. Where most are Christian, his faith is sort of open to… Lexa still isn't quite sure she understands it. It's very nature based, It's something he has picked up in his travels, he has strong beliefs in the influence of negative and positive energies.

"I saw the look on your face in that room. What the fuck is going on?" He asks, unstrapping his weapon from himself, removing the live round from the chamber and placing it on safety. Lexa dos the same, taking a seat on her small cot.

"I saw- I've been seeing," Lexa shakes her head, wiping the sweat from her brow with her scarf. She can't find the right words. How can she explain these eerily vivid hallucinations without sounding crazy.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow? My head is throbbing" Lexa asks, lying back, not even bothering to remove her shoes.

"Here," Miller tosses her his canteen and a bottle of aspirin form his stash. "But this conversation isn't over".

"Duly noted," Lexa nods, taking the items gratefully, before drifting off to sleep with the blonde woman making an appearance in her dreams.

* * *

 **22.9175° S, 43.1881° W**

 **Santa Teresa, Rio de Janiero. Brasil.**

The air is warm and sticky. A slight breeze blows through the window, the white curtains flow lazily though the air.

A figure lays stark naked in a large bed. There isn't much to the room except for a small dresser, a large bed and a couple of art supplies. Easels, paints, charcoal, the works.

The back on this man lying in bed is very rugged and structured. The muscles tense and flex as the figure on the bed is woken from his slumber. What wakes him isn't the normal sounds of the bustling city. No, it's the sound of music playing loudly. He's used to his neighbors playing loud music, but never has it been in spanish.

He groans, his hands grasping at his closely shaved head. Lincoln Santos hasn't been having the best time lately. For one, he's had this crippling head ache since yesterday and then there was this girl who just wouldn't get the hint.

"Lincoln, will you be drawing me again today?" the woman steps out of his bathroom, the only other room in the small place he calls home. She, just like Lincoln, is completely naked.

He groans again and hides his head under his pillow. He had been drawing Fernanda yesterday when in the middle of his session he had some sort of revelation. That's what he's calling it anyway.

The most beautiful of all angels appeared before him. She was in immense pain, looking at Lincoln like maybe he was her salvation. It was tragic, but the artist in him saw the beauty in it. That was until this woman took a gun and ended her life before his very eyes.

Only she wasn't really there. The tragic angel was never actually in his apartment. It was all in his head. Which is why he called it a revelation. He didn't think he was going crazy. No more than usual at least.

"No sweetie, my head, it's killing me," Lincoln sighs, hoping that maybe she would finally get the hint.

Lincoln doesn't usually sleep with his models. Her certainly hasn't made it a habit or anything, but every once in a while him and Fernanda would get intimate. And when he told her he had to end the session early because of a head ache (He may have called it a revelation to himself but he knew others would call him crazy so he kept his vision to himself). But Fernanda always harbored feelings for Lincoln and would not let him excuse her like that.

She strutted over, completely naked, and told him she would fuck the pain away. Now normally Lincoln wouldn't allow such vulgar language when speaking about a woman and sex. He believed women were Goddesses and deserved to be treated as such. It's not to say the man didn't like to have sex, because yes, he did love sex, but he always treated his partners with respect and tenderness.

The offer of sex was on the table and after that moment, Lincoln felt it was the one way he could feel like himself again. And well, he just really liked sex.

But Fernanda had not fulfilled her promise of, as she put it, 'fuck the pain away'. Instead, it actually felt worse.

"Still?" Fernanda giggles, picking up her clothes off the floor. "I would offer another round, but I have to go to work". Lincoln nearly sighs in relief.

"I'll see you next time Lincoln," Fernando leans over his bed, removes the pillow and places a kiss to his neck, before scurrying off.

"My god," Lincoln groans out again. This head ache really is getting the best of him and the music isn't helping. He sits up in bed deciding maybe a shower will help his situation, not before slamming his fist on the wall a couple of times.

The music pauses for a moment, but not before long does it start up again, but at twice the volume.

He loves living in Rio, he really does, but the constant heat and humidity is awful, especially when nursing a head ache.

Lincoln's built form strides across his small place in a few short paces. His bathroom is, like the rest of his place, small and only offers room for a toilet, a sink (if you could call it that) and a shower head. Blue tiles all across the floor, with only a small lip for water not to get everywhere, though no curtain, so the water did manage to splash all over the place anyway.

Lincoln didn't bother messing with the temperature. There was only one: cold. Not that he minded it in this weather.

He let the shower head with poor water pressure cascade water down his chiseled body. Lincoln loves art. Art for art's sake. Art with meaning. Any kind of Art, so it was only fitting that his torso, back, and arms had ink permanently tattooed to them.

Lincoln had settled for his own designs. Simple black, yet elegant markings.

He quickly shut the water off, cursing himself for forgetting a towel and having to leave a trail of water all over his apartment. He's not sure when the music shut off, but he's grateful for it.

But the strangest thing happens as soon as he steps foot outside of the bathroom. Yet another revelation.

And if Lincoln had thought the woman form his first vision was beautiful, well this woman, she was something else. Words could not describe her beauty.

She stood before him in complete and utter shock. Small in stature and in over all size, though nothing about her seemed small. With her long dark hair cascading down her shoulders and her light green eyes, wide with the shock of a naked man standing before her, she was the most beautiful thing to exist.

And if Lincoln was going crazy, he did not mind being lost in insanity.

Then suddenly, Lincoln wasn't in his apartment. And the woman before him wasn't the only company.

He was in some sort of establishment with finely dressed men sitting all around him. But they didn't look at him, as if it was the norm for a 6 foot tall naked man to stand before them. That or their gaze was otherwise occupied by the half naked women removing their clothes and dancing on poles.

Lincoln had seen enough American television to know this was a strip club. A classy one at that. Never having spent any time in one himself, he wondered if they were all like this and if it was normal for a small girl wearing a leather jacket and skin tight jeans to be accompanied by such threatening looking men.

Lincoln made no move to cover himself, even as the beautiful woman circled him questioningly. She circles him twice before they were suddenly back in his apartment.

The woman's eyes widen again, but she says nothing, tearing her lingering gaze away from him and to her surroundings.

And with the blink of an eye, she's gone.

Lincoln blinks a couple more times, hoping the woman would return, but to no avail. His head is still pounding and he is dripping water all over his tiled ground.

It's probably 2pm by now, so he should get himself dressed and get some work done. The people of Rio need someone to drive them all around the city, and this cab driver needs to make some money.

* * *

 **42.3361° N, 71.0458° W**

 **South Boston, Massachusetts. USA.**

The Blake family has been notorious in Boston ever since the rise and fall of Whitey Bulger. He was a hero to her family. Well technically he was family. A cousin twice removed or something along those lines. You know Irish catholics and their large families.

No one has ever been able to escape the Blake family legacy. To be honest, no one ever really leaves Southie. And if they do, they always come back.

Octavia Blake doesn't mind it, because in her continuing her family trade, her brother was given freedom. Well not total freedom. He joined the military in order to escape the family business. Only in the Blake family was joining the army considered cowardice.

Octavia's older brother Bellamy, was on the fast track towards prison. Or dying. And Octavia was not going to allow that to happen. Though Bellamy had always been fiercely protective of his sister, Octavia had always been able to stomach the business a little better than her brother.

Bellamy had a hard exterior, but he was extremely soft on the inside. Octavia had looked soft, but was quite the opposite on the inside.

Her life wasn't exactly easy, not that Octavia would be one to complain. Her mother had died during childbirth and her father always blamed Octavia for it. He only ever mentioned it when drunk, which was every night. So Octavia did her very best to make it up to him.

Though small and soft looking(except for her scowl), the woman was tough. People tended to underestimate her, which was why her father loved sending her to collect debts.

Yesterday it had been Tommy McMillan and old fat bastard who thought could get away with stiffing the Blake family.

He took one look at Octavia and burst out into a fit of laughter. I mean Octavia really couldn't blame him considering he easily weighed twice what she did.

But he sure wasn't laughing when she knocked his fat ass to the ground and started beating the shit out of him.

Being Irish Catholic meant Octavia attended mass every Sunday. Though she certainly attended, she would not claim to be extremely devout to the faith she had been baptized in.

Her faith would claim that the woman who appeared before her as she knocked the shit out of old McMillan was a saint. A saint sent to save her from her sins. A warning of some sort.

She even paused from the beating to look at the woman. Then the woman pulled out a gun and took her life right there in front of Octavia. Tommy's eyes were swollen shut so she sure as hell couldn't ask him if he had witnessed what she did. And if she told father Abraham, he would tell her it was a sign to finally save her from the family business.

Octavia new better than that however, because she punched tommy one more time, effectively knocking him out, before walking away.

She went to a bar that night and met up with her friend Adam, who she knew quite biblically. He was madly in love with Octavia of course, had even proposed a handful of times. But she simply liked getting drunk with him and scratching that itch every once in a while.

Which is what she did after handling business for the day.

The following morning she snuck out form under Adam's sleeping form, collected her clothes, and went to meet her father at The Blue Moon.

Not before stopping by Tommy's of course, who had sent her a text letting her know he had her fathers money.

It's almost tacky how Tommy hands the money over in a large manila envelope. He's watched way too many movies.

"You're not gonna count it?" Tommy asks gruffly.

"I think I've made it pretty clear how the Blake family handles thieves," Octavia nods at him, placing her large sunglasses over her face. She's not used to getting hangovers, having started drinking at a young age, she established a very high tolerance. But today she is sporting a gnarly head ache that she can't seem to shake.

"Right," Tommy nods and flinches back when Octavia offers him her hand to shake. She can't even bother trying to hold back her smirk. He eyes her bruised hand slightly, knowing full well that that is the only damage Octavia Blake has from their encounter, while he can't see out of his left eye.

She rides her '64 Honda CB77. A bike she and Bellamy built back up with their own two hands. Bellamy had wanted to paint it red, but of course Octavia had opted for black so it could always go with her wardrobe. Which also consisted of black. Mostly because blood didn't stain her black clothes.

It's noon, but she knows where her father will be. It's where he goes every Saturday. Blue Moon. The local strip joint her father and his business partners frequent.

"Hey O," Bobbi, one of the girls, greets Octavia as soon as she enters the door. She removes her sunglasses from face, not wanting to be THAT person with sunglasses on in a dark place. Her father frequents this place so much she is on a first name basis with practically all of the employees. They had decent chicken wings.

"Hey pops," Octavia spots her father along with other familiar faces in the VIP section. Though Octavia can practically be considered an employee here for how often she has to come in, none of her fathers companions like to meet her eyes when she drops by. It's the only time any of them are ever embarrassed around Octavia Blake. It most likely has to do with the fact most of them knew her since the age of diapers.

She moves to take a step back, but suddenly her left leg doesn't seem to cooperate with what her brain is asking it to do. She looks down to see if maybe she's caught it on something. But when she looks down there is this strange contraption on it. It looks like some sort of elegant brace, but octavia have never seen one like it before, let alone put it on her own leg and not remember doing so.

"What the?" She looks around to see why no one has made note of the thing on her leg, but when she looks back down it's gone.

Octavia shakes the uneasiness off, not wanting to think about what the hell is going on with her.

Damien Blake, in his finely pressed suit (all for appearance sake), lifts his hand with a grunt, waving Octavia forward without even looking back at her. He holds out his hand expectantly, not tearing his gaze away from the blonde impressively working the pole.

Octavia rolls her eyes and places the manilla envelope into her fathers hand without a word. No worries dad. It was easy. I nearly beat the shit out of a guy. At least Bell would be proud.

Octavia is about to turn away from the VIP section when suddenly a man appears before her. A really hot, muscular man. A really hot, muscular man, who also happened to be dripping wet and naked.

Now either the policy at the Blue Moon changed to some sort of coed situation or this man was really REALLY lost. But no one uttered a word. No one even seemed to notice.

She wasn't exactly sure what she was looking for when she started circling him. Like the tattoos were nice and you could probably literally wash clothes on his abs (plus he had a really nice ass). But something about him was so familiar and yet, unfamiliar. His dark eyes bore into her own for a moment too long that she actually gets lost in them.

So lost in fact, she's no longer at the Blue Moon, but some really hot apartment. Outside the open window, a bustling city can be heard. There are art supplies littering the room, but other than that, the place is bare. Much like the man in front of her. The way he was looking at her makes her blush when the state of his undress didn't.

"You okay O?" Bobbi asks, nudging past her with a plate of chicken wings that she places in front of her father.

The small woman shakes her head a couple of times and rubs at her eyes.

"Yeah, fine…" But Octavia isn't fine, in fact, she's beginning to think she's losing her mind.

* * *

 **20.6667° N, 103.3500° W**

 **Guadalajara, Jalisco. México.**

Her father would be disappointed. And frankly her father was a complete and utter asshat so she didn't quite give a damn.

The soccer team you root for in México defines who you are as a person. It is taken that seriously sometimes. Living in Guadalajara meant your team was Chivas. It's as simple as that.

The thing is Raven Reyes grew up her whole life in the impoverished area of Guadalajara. She even grew up jailbreaking iPhones and coding Wii's and other consoles to play pirated games. All sold in San Juan de Dios, a famous market people go to get their discounted (counterfeit) items. But growing up in that area taught her to be tough and make it on her own with very little support from her mother. So the first chance she got to leave Guadalajara, she took it.

Thus her ending up in México City at the school of UNAM (National Autonomous University of México).

Her father would have recoiled at the sight of her favoring the blue and gold over the red and white.

Unfortunately her mother fell ill the year after she graduated the engineering program at UNAM and Raven found herself moving home to take care of her mother. Cancer was a bitch though and her mother died only a few months after Raven moved home.

She never bothered moving back to México City.

Raven had been in a near fatal accident when she was young. She lost use of her left leg just above the knee. That had inspired her on her work with prosthesis. She submitted a proposal to a large corporation who luckily, gave her the funding she needed.

Raven figured she could cut her cost if she moved her lab and living space to what would be considered the slummy part of the city, that way she could spend more money on her actual equipment. She was used to roughing it and could take care of herself so she didn't mind the area at all. Especially because they had some kick ass tacos down the street.

She had been toying with the idea of hydraulics in cars and how maybe that could improve movement in one of the prototypes she had been working on when something really weird happened.

She donned her Pumas Jersey, flipped on the game for background noise and got to work. Hoping that Pumas would beat Chivas as she worked on her project.

She slid out from under the car and came face to face with a woman nearly mirroring her position on the floor. Only she wasn't sitting on a crawler. She was just sitting there, gaping at Raven.

She was so caught off guard she didn't yell a stream of expletives at her like she would have at anybody else. The way the woman just sat there felt eerily reminiscent of times she took care of her mother. But this stranger wasn't her mother. This stranger wasn't even an acquaintance.

Then the woman pulled a gun out of nowhere (technically the woman herself appeared out of nowhere so that shouldn't have surprised her) and killed herself right in the middle of Raven's shop. But there was no blood. Or even body once the gunshot rang out.

She chalked it up to the fumes of her work getting to her head. Though logically she knew that wasn't the case.

She sent herself to bed early that night. Her living space was her shop, which had a decently sized loft that overlooked her whole area.

Now that it's Saturday, she wants to get her weekly workout regimen in. Having a large shop means she has enough room for some workout equipment. It's an important part of her job to keep healthy and be able to lift stuff that weight three times as much as she does. She works alone in her shop, it's preferable that way. It just means she has to do everything herself.

But ever since she woke up, strange things have been happening. She could have sworn she woke up to faint sounds of gunfire. Something that sounds more like a far off war zone than something that could possibly occur in Guadalajara. And faint ambulances whizzing by. But it didn't sound like the ambulance they have here in México. It sounds more like something Raven has heard on American television.

All the noise is getting to her, so she simply decides to put on her headphones and start her bench pressing. Raven knows she should use a spotter for these kinds of things, but she has a very strong personality and it's kind of hard for her to make friends in the first place. She had some in México city, but not at home.

So she's doing her third rep when suddenly there's a loud banging that interrupts her thoughts. She sits up on her bench, pauses her music, and waits for the sound to start up again. But it doesn't, so she presses play to her music. This time turning up the volume so no noise seeps through.

She finishes the rep and stands, but her brace locks up for a moment. She's been meaning to tweak it a little, but simply hasn't gotten around to it. When she moves to adjust her brace, the hands that reach down aren't hers. They are considerably paler than her tan skin. And they have navy nail polish whereas Raven's are usually bare. The most peculiar part of these hands is the purpled bruising at the knuckles.

When she brings her hands to her face for closer inspection, they are once again her own.

Raven shakes her hands and rolls her shoulders, deciding maybe a shower will be the best thing to clear her mind. She'll need caffeine as well, she'll go to the OXXO down the street when she's done and grab herself a half liter coke.

The woman makes her way up the stairs slowly, exhausted from both her work out and the migraine that no amount of pain medication has been able to rectify.

Raven peels the clothes off of her sweaty body, left standing there so she can make her way towards her bathroom, she removes her brace in favor for her cane, but when she looks up to take her first step, there is a man in her room.

Raven is standing there in her birthday suit while this man stands there in a regular suit. He has a grim look on his face, but when he notes his surroundings and the completely bare woman in front of him, her furrows his brow. His gaze doesn't wander or anything (he does look down, noting the woman his naked, but nothing else).

Raven gasps, nearly stumbling backwards because there is yet another intruder in her home. He looks bored though. Or confused. Or dead inside? There isn't much emotion to his face even though he is standing there in a suit while Raven is completely exposed.

The man has his shaggy, lengthed locks combed to look proper. It actually looks like he's ready for a funeral. He looks at Raven one more time, purses his lips. Then disappears into thin air.

Raven cranes here neck, looking for a sign of the man anywhere else in her apartment, but it seems she is once again alone.

* * *

 **52.5167° N, 13.3833° E**

 **Berlin. Germany.**

A few aspirin pour into the open palm of John Murphy. He had partied hard the night before and was now paying the price for it. He thought for sure his migraine would be gone by now.

It had been a weird night last night. I mean his grandfather had just passed and he has big score is coming up so he thought he would let off some steam. He doesn't remember taking shrooms. Or LSD. Or any other substance that would have him hallucinate a woman killing herself right in the middle of the club.

He'll admit, it was terrifying, but he put it to the back of his mind even when he woke up with a migraine. He had a grandfather to bury after all.

He wasn't all that upset about it. His family was all scum. Thieves. And overall terrible people, but they did teach him everything he knows so he does have one thing to be grateful for.

His father was born an asshole, lived like an asshole, and died an asshole. So when his grandmother told Murphy to visit his grave while they were at the Pantheon, he did. He also decidedly took a piss on his grave. He would have even danced on top of it, if it weren't for the terrible pain piercing through his brain.

"You gonna be okay for later?" Murphy's best mate and partner in crime asks him. Harper Fürst. She was the first person to ever defend him in his life. Sure they both got their asses handed to them by 12 year olds (they were 8) but no one had ever taken a beating or uttered a kind word towards Murphy before. They have been friends nearly 20 years now. Business partners now.

Well it's not technically a business, but they do have a locksmith front so, he'll just stick with it.

"I'll be fine," Murphy grunts back. Harper had been kind enough to join Murphy to the funeral and the march that preceded it. Harper was practically another member of the family and people always asked when the two would finally tie the knot.

The two friends didn't see each other in that way. And in fact would never see each other like that. They would lay their lives down for one another, but in love? That was laughable at best.

"I just can't get rid of this migraine," he tells her, picking up a glass of champagne from a nearby table to down the pills with.

"They must have slipped something good in your drink. I mean you saw a woman kill herself. Kind of morbid, but with your subconscious? It doesn't surprise me," Harper takes the glass out of Murphy's hand.

She could have easily taken one of the many all around the room, but of course, she needed to have the one her best friend was enjoying. It does manage a smile out of him, albeit a little forced.

Later they were going to case the place his family was planning on robbing. Millions of dollars worth of precious Diamonds were in what was deemed an uncrackable safe by Murphy's father.

Murphy was going to prove that man wrong. He loves proving him wrong, even after he's passed.

"Do you smell that?" Murphy asks his best friend, getting a very distinct smell of Marijuana.

"Yeah, it smells like old people. Wanna get outta here?" Harper has been itching to get away from the Murphy family as soon as she stepped foot in the Manor. They make her nervous, and rightfully so, for how much blood they have on their hands.

"Yeah," Murphy agrees distractedly. If Harper had smelled pot she would have been the first to point it out with a grin.

He turns to leave, without saying goodbye to his family (which is extremely disrespectful), when he comes face to face with his Uncle. His Fathers brother, if there is any bastard that is more evil than his father was, it's his uncle.

"Leaving so soon?" He asks in a menacing tone. Harper visibly stiffens at his side, but she does not make a move to leave.

"Yes sir, I'm not feeling great," Murphy lets his uncle know, but this won't stand with him.

He begins to berate him in front of all the company. It's done purposely to humiliate him, but John Murphy couldn't care less of what these people think of him. So he just stands there, stoically taking it. It would be much worse if he tried to leave in the middle of the rant.

He's gotten so good at blocking out everyone around him, he can't even hear his uncle anymore. In fact, he doesn't even see him. His imagination runs wild and standing before him is a woman. A very attractive woman who also happens to be naked. He stares at her for a moment, noting that he has startled her with his presence (his subconscious must be really good at anticipating and creating appropriate reactions in his mind).

"Understood?" Is the first word in a couple of minutes that Murphy registers coming from his Uncle's mouth.

"Murph," Harper elbows him, drawing the vision of the naked woman away.

"Yes sir," Murphy nods respectably. His uncle too nods, satisfied with the response.

Harper takes Murphy's arm and practically drags him out of the manor.

"What did I agree to?" Murphy asks Harper with a sly grin.

"How do you do that? Ignore him so easily. He terrifies me," his best friend confesses. He shrugs in response.

"I got tired of being scared of him, so I just tune him out" Murphy explains. "Now lets get out of here, we've got work to do".

* * *

 **32.7150° N, 117.1625° W**

 **San Diego, California. USA.**

The sandy beaches, the palm trees, the promise of sunny days 90% of the year. What's not to love about San Diego?

Especially not the La Jolla area, the epicenter of college life.

Jasper Jordan started his small entrepreneurial business in college. Once he graduated, he never moved on. He liked his steady life of constant parties, pretty girls, and all the weed he wanted to smoke.

It started one fateful day he and his buddies went to Tijuana after midterms. He met some decent looking dudes who offered him lots of dough to smuggle in some pot. It was super easy too.

Once he met with them across the border, he even offered to help sell if they needed him to. It was that simple. He gets some of the best shit this earth has to offer and all he has to do is sell it.

He doesn't even have to smuggle it anymore.

He's probably the top seller in San Diego, you wouldn't know it by the size of his place, mostly because he spends most of his income on, you guessed it, more weed.

He knows there really is no need to be so secretive, what with everyone just needing to go to a dispensary to get their card, but locals have been boosting their prices up and naming their products 'gummy bears wet dream' or 'purple nurple haze'. And so many people fall for it. But Jasper? He's got that prime shit and he has a reputation for some of the best prices. So he never has to worry about his loyal customers straying.

And he always has new people coming in too. So no, business isn't slow. A part of him knows that he is possibly working with the Mexican Cartel, but he'll choose to ignore it for now. It's not like he's selling any of the hard stuff ok? It's just little ol Mary Jane.

Though he's beginning to think Chavo is starting to lace this shit, because Jasper Jordan has probably spent more time high in his life than sober and he has never experience quite the hallucination he did yesterday.

His highs are usually chill and relaxing, but a lady fuckin shot herself right int he middle of his apartment. Does that sound chill to you?

There he was, minding his own business, munching on some Doritos and giving some love to Bertha (his bong), when the lady appears out of nowhere and just stares at him for a really long ass time. And the she ups and shoots herself in the head!

Not cool man. Not cool.

He had smoked 2 joints already this morning and this gnarly head ache would simply not go away. That never happened. His relationship with weed was the one constant in his life. He could always count on weed making him feel good. Weed was reliable. Weed was his friend.

Bot today Weed let him down. And he was a little sad about that.

Laying in his bed, all comfy, on his one day off (yes he set business hours like a responsible adult). Jasper never expected a big black man to burst through his door. To be fair the man was a firefighter, but every one around here knew that if they saw smoke coming out of Jasper's apartment, there was no need to worry, because he was probably just smoking out his place.

Besides if they called the fire station every time they saw smoke coming out to Jasper place they would be here nearly every day. And he didn't want that kind of relationship with those dudes.

Jasper scream loudly when the man burst into his room, pulling his covers up to his chest, as if he were trying to hide something. Even though he was, in fact, fully clothed.

The man stands there, utterly confused by his surroundings and then looked at Jasper as if he's the last person he's expecting to find in Jaspers room.

Before Jasper could ask him what the hell he was doing in his room, the man disappeared. Jasper looks down at the half lit joint in his fingers and places it on the ashtray by his bed.

He'll definitely have to ask what Chavo is lacing this shit with.

* * *

 **51.5072° N, 0.1275° W**

 **London, England. UK.**

Wells Jaha grew up never wanting anything in life. Never needing anything he should say. He grew up with two parents in politics. Food on the table. A roof over his head. And plenty of money. Oh boy was there plenty of that.

But he never felt a sense of purpose in life. Not like his fathers call for politics.

Thelonius had been extremely upset the day Wells left University. He hated taking class and going to school. And not in the lazy teenager way. In the way that he felt no passion for it. No itch for any of it. He simply sat in class, retained the information, took the exams, then let all the information drain from his brain.

But Wells found a calling in fire fighting. He's not exactly sure why. There is no story there like someone saved his life, or the career ran in his blood. No. He simply liked helping people.

And he was damn good at his job. He took pride in the work he did. Well except maybe yesterday.

He's not sure wether to call it a lapse in judgement, smoke getting in his eye, the pressure getting to be too much, or if he was just downright hallucinating.

He had hesitated when he was not supposed to and was nearly knocked on to the ground when the hose was turned on and he did not expect the pressure. He thought for sure he was going to spray the woman he was positive was actually there, but suddenly she was gone.

Not completely gone, because suddenly she was standing right next to him, this time holding a gun. He had no time to react, between the blaze in front of him, the hose in his hand, and the chaos going on around, all he could do was watch as the woman ended her life right there. But she wasn't really there.

Luckily no one took note to his… incident. Everyone went about their lives once they had put out the fire like any other day.

When the alarm went off, announcing a fire needed to be handled, Wells rolled off his cot and covered his ears. It's not what he needed at the moment. His head was throbbing and the excessively loud alarm is too much for him.

"You alright?" Daniel asks him, rushing past him to get dressed.

"Yeah yeah, I'm right behind ya," Wells waves him off. He can't dwell on the pain now, not when there is someone out there who might need him.

He quickly dresses in his gear and follows the herd of men and women getting ready to load up.

But it's when he's passing the chiefs office the he notice smoke seeping out from under the door. He looks around in panic. What's good a fire station if it's on fire itself?

He does not hesitate to press his hands to the closed door to feel for heat. When he doesn't feel any excessive heat her bursts through the door.

Only he doesn't see the chief's office. No, he sees a man about his age, cuddled into a bed. In fact. This looks like a bedroom. The man on the bed screams, pulling his cover tight to his chest, nearly dropping the joint in his fingers. So that's the source of the smoke.

But why? How is this man in a bed in the chiefs office?

"Jaha, did you need something?" The gruff voice of his chief breaks the moment.

The room is no longer a mans bedroom, but the chiefs office. And he seems to be entertaining company. The chief does not look the least bit happy at the intrusion.

"No sir. Sorry sir," Wells quickly shuts the door, stumbling over himself and his words.

He steps away more confused then ever. It's the ringing of the alarm that reminds him that he has a job to do. No time to dwell on whatever just happened. He'll have to figure it out later.

* * *

Marcus Kane sits in a small hotel room. Legs crossed and eyes closed.

He opens his eyes slowly with the heave of a deep breath.

Something about his demeanor is defeated. He's lost 7 other souls that he was connected to in every possible way. And he loved them all like they were a part of himself. Only they were so much more.

He couldn't let Anya's sacrifice go to waste. He had to help them. For her and for the rest of his cluster. And for the new one who had no idea what life they are about to be thrown into.

Marcus approaches his window and opens his blinds to admire the view. It is quite a sight. Right outside his window, across the waterfront, stands the Golden Gate Bridge.

* * *

 **AN: To the two people who left a comment: You are awesome. Not sure if I'm gonna continue this, but I had this written, so I'm going to post it. Enjoy and let me know what you think.**


	3. First name basis

**San Francisco**

After a much needed nap, Clarke finds herself feeling better, migraine almost completely gone. Somewhere in the obscenely large penthouse Monty is making as much noise as possible, supposedly making dinner.

He purposely clashes pots and pans as if he is actually using the cookware, when really Monty can't cook to save his life. Well except for the occasional brownie, but that's only because of his love for edibles. He lives in the Bay Area after all, he has to be well versed in weed.

Clarke can't seem to get the green eyed woman out of her head. Because that's the only place the woman exists in, right? Her mind? There is no other explanation for it, Clarke searched the internet for any news involving a woman with a gun in the middle of San Francisco. Maybe it was some sort of protest? Or someone was filming a movie? But not a single word about her.

"I'm coming dammit!" Clarke shouts. She rolls out of bed and stomps her way through the house.

"I swear to God Monty," Clarke groans, trudging through the hallway and into their state of the art kitchen (that is hardly ever used).

"I didn't wake you did I?" Monty asks Clarke. His tone conveys real concern, but his expression tells Clarke that her best friend knew exactly how much noise he was making.

"Fuck you," Clarke takes a seat at the breakfast bar, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. While yes, she feels much better, she still feels the faintest bit of a head ache lingering.

"No thanks," Monty quips pleasantly "Not my type". Clarke has to resist the urge to toll her eyes.

Clarke met Monty her freshman year at Berkeley. They were up late at the library. It's a good thing they fought over the last red bull in the vending machine, because Monty dropped out later that year after creating a popular app. Since then, the man became CEO of his own tech company. He makes more money in the time it takes him to watch Clarke fail miserably at making them dinner than Clarke dos in a month.

Clarke has never had to worry about money though, her father worked at NASA before he passed and her mother was the best Cardio Thoracic Surgeon on the west coast.

Even through the start up of Monty's company and Clarke's sleepless years through medical school the two were inseparable. The closest thing they had to family.

Clarke had been estranged from her mother ever since the passing of her father.

Monty was estranged from his parents ever since he came out. He hasn't spoken a word to them since he received his acceptance letter to Berkeley (full ride of course).

"You are feeling better right?" Monty asks, Clarke really had scared him for a moment.

The blonde gives her friend a reassuring smile.

"Yes," she has to say the words out loud or Monty won't believe her. Even then, she can't get those green eyes out of her head.

Monty looks skeptical. And rightfully so.

"Would I lie to you?" Clarke retorts at her friends expression.

"Yes," he deadpans quite easily. That's fair.

"Well I do feel better," She tells him honestly.

"Still seeing the hottie?" Clarke told Monty all about the mysterious women though now she was starting to regret it.

"Who said she was hot?" Clarke asks, annoyed. She doesn't want to go into the details of her hallucinations and whether or not this imaginary woman was attractive.

Monty stands from the seat he had taken next to Clarke and clears his throat as if preparing for a grande performance.

"She had these really green eyes that were just…woah… I mean really Monty, they were like… wow…" Monty bats his lashes and raises his voice an octave, using a dreamy tone to impersonate Clarke.

" I don't sound like that," she snaps, but something did sound awfully familiar about his words. "Do I?" She hesitates.

Monty guffaws with laughter. He strolls over to the take out menu drawer, coming to terms with the fact that neither of them will be cooking dinner.

"I have never known you to be at a loss of words," Monty explains. "I think your hallucination hottie is trying to tell you something," Monty takes a suddenly serious demeanor.

Clarke thinks so too. Something about her hallucination felt so real. It simply HAD to mean something.

Clarke leans in towards her best friend, anticipating Monty's next words.

"That you need to get laid," he informs her gravely.

The doctor pushes back in her chair. deciding she needs some fresh air. Monty is being completely serious, he honestly thinks he's being helpful. Bless him.

"Think about it Griffin," Monty calls out to his friend.

"Not a chance Green," Clarke calls back over her shoulder. She doesn't wait around for Monty to ask her what they should order for dinner. That could take another hour of deliberation.

Clarke makes her way through their obscenely large penthouse. She slides open the glass door to their roof access. Having a lot of money means having all the amenities. Like their personal all on the roof. Jacuzzi. Patio area. Barbecue. The works. Clark couldn't really care less about all of that though.

Her favorite part is the view of the bay. Her spot is right against the metal railing. Doesn't matter what time of day either. It could be morning when the Golden Gate is barely visible through the fog. Or midnight when the twinning lights of the bridge and passing cars reflected off the ocean.

Now, as the sun goes down, she can appreciate the light left in the day illuminating the infamous bridge. In just a few moments the street lights will switch on.

She feels the presence before anything else registers. Deciding that if she's going crazy she might as well go along with it.

The reasonable way to react to a presence is to be completely and utterly terrified right?

This could very well be some sort of poltergeist or a ghost haunting her like in all of those stupid Paranormal activity movies Monty keeps forcing her to watch.

One of those was supposedly based in Santa Rosa that's only an hour north. But what's more absurd? That she's being haunted like one of those cliche Hollywood films or that she's going crazy but is sort of okay with it?

She doesn't feel scared. Quite the opposite actually. Clarke feels safe.

Maybe Monty is right (not that she'll ever say that aloud). Maybe she's okay with the hallucination or poltergeist or whatever because she is insanely beautiful.

"San Francisco," the woman utters in a soft voice. She's appeared next to Clarke, also leaning against the railing to look out at the Bay.

Clarke spares a glance her way, afraid if she looks too long, she'll disappear.

The brunette closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I can actually smell the ocean," she hums in appreciation.

Clarke says nothing, she just wants to enjoy the presence of the stranger (even if she feels anything but that).

They stand in silence enjoying the view together until Clarke can no longer take it. She has to look at her.

If she is going crazy, she might as well enjoy it right?

The woman standing beside her has her long chestnut hair woven into a braid that falls loosely over her shoulder.

She's in a similar outfit Clarke saw her in on the street. An orange shawl of sorts is draped over her head as if shielding her from a blistering heat. A tan shirt dirtied with what looks like sand, cargo pants tucked into standard issue army boots.

Strapped to her shoulders, hanging securely with a firm grip is a menacingly large gun.

"It's rude to stare you know," the brunette says suddenly. Clarke startles almost stumbling over nothing. She hadn't expected her to speak. The woman's eyes were closed. She didn't expect to be caught and called out.

"Well it's rude for a hallucination to show up uninvited," Clarke grumbles back.

"Hallucination?" The brunette scoffs, looking offended. "Me? The hallucination?"

"Uh, yeah," Clarke argues "What are you trying to imply?".

The brunette stares at the blonde, eyebrows raised. Oh!

"You think I'M the figment of YOUR imagination?" Now Clarke's the one offended. How could this green eyed hallucination of hers have the audacity to claim she's the one that's real. The nerve,

"Okay if you're not the hallucination, explain to me why you're at my house? hmm?" Clarke is hit with a wave of satisfaction when the brunette looks around her mouth opening and closing, with no words coming out.

"I-You-Look-Wait, you live here?" the brunette asks, her eyes widening in awe.

"I do," Clarke answers slightly embarrassed. She knows the penthouse is a bit excessive and over the top and borderline ostentatious.

The brunette looks around the roof for a moment, but doesn't seem to dwell on the matter for she turns back to look out at the bay. She looks almost.. grumpy at the argument.

"I'm not a figment of your imagination," She grumbles, upset. Clarke can't help but think this tough looking chick with an alarmingly large gun strapped on her looks adorable with a slight pout on her lips.

The brunette has her brow furrowed in contemplation. Clarke continues to openly stare at her, she may love her spot on the roof overlooking the bay, but she has it memorized. She's much rather begin to memorize the view presented in front of her now.

So, do you have a name?" Clarke blurts out suddenly. The blonde isn't quite sure why she's so nervous, but something about the brunette next to her has butterflies filling her stomach.

"I do," The brunette smiles slightly, almost as if sensing how nervous Clarke is.

Clarke waits a beat. The brunette turns, her posture much more relaxed now and she faces the blonde.

"But why do you care? You know, since I'm not real".

"My parents may not have taught me it was rude to stare," Clarke states, making fun of herself. "But they did say it was impolite to no introduce yourself, regardless of whether the person is real or not".

the brunette laughs at this. Clarke considers this a win. The brunette doesn't look like someone who laughs often.

"I'm Clarke by the way," The blonde states, welcoming the smile it elicits from the brunette.

"Lexa"

"Lexa," Clarke echoes, testing the name on her tongue. It's just sounds so right. It fits. As if Clarke had known that was her name all along. "Nice to meet you".

"You're a strange one Clarke Griffin," Lexa's eyes widen slightly at the slip. Clarke hadn't told Lexa her last name, yet somehow she knew it.

Clarke makes no note of it. Because just as Lexa had just known Clarke's full name. Clarke knows that Lexa's is Alexandria Woods.

"I've been called worse," Is what Clarke says instead.

It happens suddenly. Once second Clarke is standing on her roof, the cool evening air whipping at her blonde locks. The next, she's in a literal desert. Sand dunes and white hot sun included.

Clarke is sitting now, her position in the sand mirroring Lexa's, elbows on her knees, hands on her shin, overlooking the secluded sandy wasteland. Lexa's attire now makes sense. She is dressed for her conditions.

"Where are we?" Clarke asks, grin spread widely on her face as she looks all around her.

"If I told you I'd have to kill you," Lexa tells her. Clarke can only tell she's joking by the quirk of her brow(and their strange connection). Something about Lexa's statement however, rings true.

"I don't really have to ask," Clarke reminds her. Lexa narrows her eyes at the blonde. Everything about this situation screams crazy.

"Benghazi," Lexa sighs, staring out at the horizon. Just as Lexa somehow knows that Clarke works at a hospital in San Francisco as a trauma surgeon in training, she knows that Clarke will figure out she's special forces working undercover.

"Benghazi as in Hillary Clinton leaked emails Benghazi?" Clarke intones, astonished.

"I wasn't aware there was another," Lexa teases, but Clarke isn't listening, she's becoming distracted by her surroundings. In turn, distracting Lexa with her wide eyed curiosity.

The doctors is sinking her fingers into the sand, dragging them slowly through the grains.

"I can feel it," Clarke whispers. "Like, I'm really here".

"So who's the hallucination now?" Lexa jokes. Clarke turns and locks eyes with the woman. It's in that moment, she decides she's the most beautiful hallucination she could ever come up with.

"Still you," She tells her, biting back laughter.

"Is that so?" Lexa laughs, shaking her head.

They fall into another comfortable silence. The heat beating down on them as Clarke busies herself drawing nonsensical patters in the sand with her fingers. Lexa watches on, having no qualms in negating her previous statement of manners and staring.

The stillness of the moment is interrupted by a procession of echoing gunshots. Coming from just out of view from where they sit. The proximity of the gunshots is quite alarming to Clarke.

Lexa, however, simply lifts her gaze in concentration. It's not until a voice comes through Lexa's radio (Miller, Clarke somehow knows) does Lexa actually looked as alarmed as Clarke feels. Though Lexa still seems very in control.

"Woods, we've been compromised! Do you hear me Woods? Take exile route Omaha! Lexa get-" The voice is cut off abruptly. Not far from their position rings more gunshots. Then static.

* * *

 **San Diego**

Jasper Jordan isn't dumb. Many like to think of him as a simple SoCal pot head. But that's just the surface. How else would he have a booming business working comfortably out of his home? Sure most of his income goes right back into his product, but at least that's the way he wants to have his life. He chose this.

Though, admittedly, Jasper did not choose the black eye he's sporting.

After the very vivid hallucinations Jasper had, the only explanation was that Chavo, his provider, was lacing his stuff.

So Jasper may or may not have mentioned this to Chavo. That didn't go over quite so well. Chaco didn't like what Jasper was insinuating. That he laces his weed with something. There may have been a warning about not telling his customers or he'd be missing his left pinky real soon. Jasper was quite fond of his left pinky. So he quickly agreed.

But ever since the herb induced hallucination Jasper had steered clear of the stuff.

That's where thins started to get weird though. The hallucination could not get out of his head. Thus bringing on information Jasper is positive her had never learned. Like when Chavo told Jasper he would cut off his finger, the San Diego native somehow knew in just what way her would be removing it. Last time Jasper checked he was not privy to mob, or rather, cartel torture techniques.

Or just this morning, Jasper just knew how to fix the toaster oven that had been out of service on his kitchen counter for months now.

Ad as if things couldn't possibly get any weirder, Jasper suddenly knew intimate details of peoples lives. People form around the world. People he isn't even really truer exist.

He knows about a man living in Rio de Janeiro; Lincoln Santos. He knows the loyalty the man holds for his friends and how fiercely protective he is of his mother even though he only ever gets to see her twice a year.

Jasper also know about Wells Jaha of London. A man who fight fires and saves lives. How he holds contempt for politics especially when involving his father.

Then there's Octavia Blake who misses her older brother with every fiber of her being but also holds slight resentment because he left her to fight a war that isn't his, while she was left to wage war on the streets of her home town. Even though Octavia made him leave, she wishes it hadn't been so easy for him.

And Raven Reyes who swears that she prefers solitude. People hold her back and they always have, but loneliness creeps into her bones every night and she aches for a family she doesn't have and perhaps has never had.

Then there's Alexandria Woods. Soldier doesn't begin to cover who she is. She is a warrior. She's been fighting her whole life. Fighting the odds of a kid who grew up in the system. Fighting for her rights not only as a woman but as a Lesbian.

And John Murphy who abhors his family. At least his blood. He created a family in his best friend. Harper. Murphy who hates that his family are petty thieves and burglars, but damn if he won't be better than they are.

Clarke Griffin as well. A San Franciscan who much like Murphy, finds family in a best friend, but for entirely different reasons. This tie it involves a dead parent, but this loss genuinely suffered. A woman who dedicates her life to saving others, but one who may need saving herself.

Jasper isn't sure why or how he knows any of this, but he does. And now that he knows he isn't sure what to do with the information. But he sure as hell isn't going to stop there. He knows all of this means something. Jasper ins't dumb.

* * *

 **Guadalajara**

The streets of Guadalajara are filled with constant noise. Noisy people. Noisy cars. Vendors, selling everything imaginable from smart phone chargers to puppies fresh from the womb.

Raven find comfort in the constant noise. Always has (though she won't be going into the psychological reasons behind that). Whenever the mechanic needs to clear her head - when her mind is stuck on an equation or she can't quite figure out how to make something work, she goes out for a walk.

She especially likes to take a walk down the street from her shop to grab a quick bite to eat. Raven doesn't care what anyone says, the best place to get tacos are from street vendors. Seriously, Raven has tried a plethora of places around Mexico (tacos are sort of her thing). The best place for a good taco is from her girl Irma. Best Al Pastor tacos in the whole damn country.

"Will you be having three or four today mija?" Irma asks as Raven approaches the small booth. She holds up three fingers for the woman.

"I still don't understand how you're so tiny," Arturo, Irma's short portly husband appears from behind the make shift register they have. He pats his round belly and looks over at his wife fondly. "Irma has me like this, it's her fault". Raven laughs, she may not be fond of a lot people, but Arturo and Irma are the exception.

"With that logic Raven should be larger than you," Irma smiles fondly as she spoons meat onto the griddle, beginning to cook up Raven's usual order.

"When am I going to see you working old man? Why not give Irma a break?" Raven asks, settling into their usual banter.

"Work? I am working. I stand here and look pretty, Irma is the brains of the operation" Arturo admits easily. Raven is aware of the Machista culture she is a part of, which is why she finds Arturo and Irma's marriage refreshing.

"That I believe" Raven laughs as Irma hands over the styrofoam tray with the three tacos.

"How's working coming along?" Irma asks as Raven begins to pile on condiments for her tacos. Plenty of onions, cilantro and salsa. She hasn't been on a date in ages, so it's not like she's worried about any of it getting stuck in her teeth, which is why she's generous with her portions.

"It's coming along," Raven responds around a mouthful. Irma rolls her eyes at the lack of manners but Arturo grins.

Raven's watch beeps at her wrist. She has a proposal she has to send in in about 30 minutes and she hasn't even started.

"Gotta go" Raven tells them, fishing out a few pesos and pressing them into Irma's hand. She works hard to put her son through school and whenever Raven can spare it she throws a few extra bucks their way. She saves enough money by slumming it and having her shop in the 'unsafe area', so why not spend a little bit of the money she saves on food. At least this helps someone out.

"Are you working late tonight?" Irma calls out after Raven who has become an expert at eating and walking. "I can stop by and drop off some food when we close up".

"I'm fine, thank you!" Raven calls out over her shoulder. Irma tends to stop by anyway, always wanting to make sure that the girl eats.

Raven never likes to see her brace as a hinderance. It's simply another part of her. But it does make certain things unnecessarily complicated for her. Like the fact that jaywalking is just a part of every day life for the citizens of Guadalajara, and normally, the particular street where her shop is located on doesn't have a heavy flow of cars, but today, she can't seem find a long enough break between vehicles for her to hobble across the street.

Finally. a red mazda is far enough away from her that Raven can make a break for it, and she does, but it seems the car only speeds up so as to not let the girl pass. She has to rush over so fast she stumbles over herself as the car incessantly honks at her. She's kind enough to raise a finger at the car, but undoing so her braced leg kicks the curb and she stumbles to the ground.

"Fuck," Raven curses as her hands scrape the pavement.

A strong tan arm reaches into her view, offering a hand. Men do this a lot in Mexico, offer you help, but with lots of strings attached so must of the time she curses at them or slaps their hand away, but when she looks up to meet the eyes, they seem all too familiar.

"You okay?" He asks her, offering a kind smile. Something about the dark eyes and the chiseled jaw is familiar. She tries to think if maybe it was one of her one night stands from once upon a time, but she would remember that face. And definitely wouldn't kick him out of bed.

"Fuckin asshole nearly ran me over" Raven mutters, taking his hand a rush of heat flooding to her cheeks.

The man looks up and his eyes widen, not only because he looks confused at his surroundings, but at the woman who had rushed over to see if Raven was okay.

Now Raven isn't normally grateful for her time spent out of her shop, but at the view of these two gorgeous specimens coming to her aid, well, she considers herself lucky. This short girl in a leather jacket (seriously, in this heat?), she wouldn't dream of kicking her out of bed either.

"Asshole nearly killed you," The woman looks Raven up and down, making sure no harm was done to her. Her brow furrows at the brace, but Raven is used to that, people stare at it all the time.

The short woman who came to Raven's aid finally looks at the man who also came to help and her eyes widen as well. Clearly familiar with him.

"It's you-" The woman and the man utter at the same time, pointing at each other. Now Raven is left confused.

"You're the guy I saw naked," The woman states matter of factly. Then her eyes wander at her surroundings, she, like the well built man before her, is confused.

"You saw me naked," The man laughs, not seeming at all bothered by it.

"Someone saw me naked the other day," Raven mutters under her breath, feeling a bit left out.

"What part of Rio are we in?" The man turns to Raven for an explanation, not at all bothered by the strangeness of the conversation or the circumstances.

"We're in Brazil?" The woman asks, her face lighting up in excitement. Raven can tell her face doesn't light up like this often and the view is breathtaking, tall dark and handsome seems to agree.

"No," Raven shakes her head at her companions, her words come out slow as if she's talking to a child. "We're in Guadalajara".

"I've never been to Mexico". The man utters, his eyes scanning the street.

"Me neither," The woman breathes, smiling at Raven and the man in the same manner.

As much as Raven would like to bask in the beauty of the moment. The beauty of these two people who seem to accept the fact that they are somehow in Mexico despite the fact hat they have no recollection of how they got here, but Raven needs to know how things work, so she's got to ask.

"Excuse me, are either of you going to acknowledge how fucking weird this is?" Raven asks. "Like how do I know that your name is Octavia and yours is Lincoln?"

"It is pretty fucking weird" Octavia agrees, but she doesn't seem at all bothered by it. Not bothering with the logistics of it all.

"This might be the strangest thing that has happened to me this week" Lincoln nods, agreeing with the women.

"Might?" Raven asks, wondering who the craziest of the three of them is.

"Look, some weird-" But Raven doesn't get to finish her sentence, because she is rudely interrupted.

"Hey Raven!" The familiar voice of her mentor calls out to her. Jacopo Sinclair who works at the University of Guadalajara (a fact that both Raven and Sinclair argue about constantly).

Raven looks over at her mentor who is jogging over to her with a bright smile on his face.

"Who are you talking to?" He asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Raven rolls her eyes and is about to introduce the people who never even properly introduced themselves when she realizes she is all alone on the side of the road. She whirls around completely, in search of the two extremely good looking strangers, but they have vanished.

"Um, no one" Raven frowns, maybe it's the pain medication she's taking that is causing these weird ass hallucinations? She'll have to stop taking them for a few days.

"What do you want Sinclair?" Raven asks both irritated, but also slightly relieved to see a person she knows is real.

"I came to help you with your proposal" Sinclair explains as if it's the most obvious answer.

"You remembered?" Raven is honestly touched. She mentioned it in passing the other day, she didn't think he would remember, let alone care enough to help her out with it.

"You were bitching about it the other day, figured you needed a hand," Sinclair offers with a shrug.

"Let's get to work," he nods over to the door to Raven's shop. The mechanic looks around one last time, wondering where the hell Lincoln and Octavia went, before following Sinclair to her place.

* * *

 **Berlin**

"Would you stop fucking around?" Harper directs at Murphy in a harsh whisper.

It's the middle of the night in a high security building housing millions of dollars worth of diamonds. This score had been planned months in advance, the problem is, Harper had heard that the Murphy's were after the diamonds and had to speed up the plan.

Murphy's father had deemed this safe uncrackable, the only way to get in was with a drill apparently. Murphy had to speed up the plan, but it didn't mean he was going to give into his fathers words. He would crack the safe, even if it meant running into his family in the process.

It was perfect actually. If Murphy pulled this off, and his family came in right after him, it would be the perfect crime. As I'd his family were the real thieves, the evidence left behind with the drill hole they will be leaving behind. What evidence while John be leaving behind? That's right. None.

And it had all gone smoothly. Harper had gotten them in the building without any problems. She bypassed the security system so easily, it was almost pathetic. Then came John's part in it all.

He took a seat before the safe, cross legged and stared it down as if he could crack the code by simply looking at it. And if a look could do that, the safe doors would swing wide open with the intensity of the stare coming from John.

It was harrowing, sitting before the very safe that was his fathers white whale. Haunting almost. In fact, it was borderline driving him to insanity.

In fact, John was sure the stress of the whole situation was doing something to his brain because suddenly a muscular black man in what looked like gym attire was watching him.

Well it started out as watching him, but the longer Murphy sat there, slowly listening to the tick of each movement on the tumblers of the locks, the more aggravated the handsome black man got.

It was all going according to plan, really, but this man was ruining it all.

"THIS IS ILLEGAL!" The man paced back and forth along the ostentatiously decorated room. Harper took no note to the angry, ranting man, which meant it was all in John's head. With the weird things John has been imagining lately, it almost didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the fact that his conscience (apparently he had grown one in the last 24 hours) was a body building looking mother fucker with a British accent.

"I'm well aware," Murphy responds in a bored tone. Harper's first thought is of course that her best friend is messing with her.

"John just get your shit together," She angrily tells her best friend. He's been seemingly talking to himself, but John has been talking to the burly man who has been spitting expletives at him ever since he figured out what he and Harper were doing.

"You can't do this," The man paces back and forth behind John, but does not intervene.

"This is wrong," The man continues. "You can't just go around stealing things. What makes you think this okay? What drove you to this? Surely you can't be so desperate-"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP?" At first Murphy could simply ignore the man, the man he somehow knew was named Wells, but now his questions aren't letting him concentrate.

Harper looks around the room, then over at her best friend, probably wondering if John Murphy finally cracked.

"I didn't say anything," she tells him with a furrowed brow.

The man stops his pacing and glares at Murphy. His arms are crossed petulantly at his chest and his face is red with either anger or because he is out of breath because of the length of his rant. He opens his mouth to say something but Murphy holds up his finger at him, Harper looks over at the emptiness, confused.

Murphy takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and listens to the tick tick tick. Then suddenly the tick clicks into place with a slight dull sound to it.

Murphy's eyes snap open and he grins. Just as Harper cheers, John's conscience disappears with a disappointed huff.

John Murphy isn't sure if he's going crazy, but right now he doesn't really care, because he just became filthy fuckin rich.

* * *

 **AN: Sorry it has taken so** **long to update. Hope you all liked it. Let me know what you thought.**


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